When the pure shapes sank
under the chirping of daisies,
I knew they had murdered me.
They combed the cafés, graveyards, and churches for me,
pried open casks and cabinets,
destroyed three skeletons in order to rip out their gold teeth. But they couldn’t find me anymore.
No, they couldn’t find me.
But they discovered the sixth moon had fled against the torrent, and the sea—suddenly!—remembered
the names of all its drowned.
From Fable of Three Friends to Be Sung in Rounds, Federico García Lorca*